


Alphabet Soup

by lettalady



Series: Month Prompt Challenges [3]
Category: American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Night Manager (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 21,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: Alphabet Soup Challenge: prompt fulfillments (fics, oneshots, segments, and everything between) for each letter of the alphabet.Chapter index in the notes
Series: Month Prompt Challenges [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544191
Comments: 24
Kudos: 24





	1. T is for Threat

**Author's Note:**

> T is for Threat - Jonathan Pine  
> C is for Criminal  
> G is for Game Night (Chris Evans)  
> D is for Dancing  
> F is for Flu (bodyguard!Tom)  
> Q is for Question - Hitman for Hire  
> O is for Orchard  
> S is for S'mores (Chris Evans)  
> W is for Wedding Buddy - The Wedding Checklist  
> Z is for Zipper - A Turn of the Knife  
> B is for Bubbles - Unsettled  
> R is for Regret - Loki WISH series  
> A is for Absence - (shhh spoilers)  
> I is for Identical (Chris Evans)  
> V is for Vulnerable (bodyguard!Tom)  
> X is for Xray - A Turn of the Knife  
> E is for Extraction (James Conrad)

**P** ine sits back in one of the cushy chairs typically reserved for guests, staring at you with the quiet bustle of the hotel lobby serving as background static. How he’s comfortable in that suit is beyond you. The simple linen material you’re wearing feels like it’s too much covering your skin.

Hard to say what the consequences will be of losing this staring contest. You’re in no rush to find out.

Then his expression changes, a subtle flicker of his eyes sending a chill through you. Maybe it’s the lighting in the lobby, maybe it’s the color of his suit, but his eyes take on a sea green hue, igniting the feeling within you that something dangerous is about to occur.

“Today is going to happen,” his words rasp across the small space established between the pair of you, “are you?”


	2. C is for Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new character pairing. Who are they? You decide!

**H** e can’t feel guilty over pickpocketing the phone. He might bother feeling a little off about it later when he has the time to breathe and think back about his actions. There’s simply no time to risk pausing to purchase a burner, never mind the fact that he doesn’t currently have the cash. At least not on him…

Barely pausing to reroute, he jabs at the buttons to make a call. It’s a risk, but necessary. He mutters under his breath as he listens to the connecting tones, “Pick up pick up pick up pick up.”

“Hello?”

Fleetingly he wonders if she would have answered if she’d seen his number pop up, if she even still has it programmed into her phone. It’s been a few years. It hadn’t ended well. He glances over his shoulder, as he speed-walks down the street. “Hey. Don’t hang up.”

She sucks in a sharp breath before responding to him. “No. Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

At least she still recognizes his voice.

He’s got a few blocks to try to dig himself out of this hole before things’ll get really complicated, really fast. “Look, I know—”

“No.” She snaps, “I don’t want to hear it. Whatever it is. No.”

He ignores her protests and the anger in her words. He doesn’t have the time to let her tell him off for what happened. At least he’s almost out of the commercial district, almost to the residential area, almost to the stash he’d hidden at her place all those years ago. “Two minutes. I’ll just need two minutes.”

“Are those – sirens?”

Yes. Shit. He might have less time than he thinks. Might be time to give up speed walking and hoping that he just looks like a businessman rushing home. Might be time to start running. He squeezes the little device a little harder, his hand nearly cramping from the force he’s exerting and the odd way he’s holding his arm to keep the discussion going as he hurries towards her place. “You haven’t remodeled recently have you?”

She’s frowning, furious, but answers him anyway, repeating the one word she’s gotten so good at saying during this call, “…. No.”

“Good. Good.” He breathes out a little of the tension that had built up. There was always the chance she’d discovered the box and trashed it. “Uh – grab a crowbar and…”

“Wait. You’re coming here? Now?! You fucking—”

The line clicks, the call ending.

Fuck. He never meant for things to get so complicated. But then what he intended and what happened were drastically different.


	3. G is for Game Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something featuring Chris Evans

**F** amily game night has taken a turn. UNO really isn’t something you expected to send tempers flying. Monopoly, sure. But UNO?

He squeezes your knee under the table with one hand as he plays the card with the other, “Sorry, babe.”

You jump, knocking your knee on the underside of the table, dislodging his grip with the jerking motion. Shaking your head, you reach out to take the card off the top of the discard pile to flick it back to him, “Nope. Nuh-uh. You have to draw.”

Chris snorts, plucking the card up and playing it again. “No way.” He grins at you as he leans an elbow on the table, “It passes to you.”

“No! You can’t play that! You have to draw!”

He tips towards you, reaching like he wants to peek at your cards, “Just cause you don’t have a…”

“Children!” Both of you pause, looking a little sheepish as you each glance around at the rest of the table. “Take it to another room.”

The rest of the family moves on, continuing on with play while the pair of you quietly ‘debate’ what is and isn’t allowed. For his part Chris looks like he’s about two seconds away from throwing his hands in the air, but then he takes a breath and reroutes his argument. He’s not gonna back down on this one, and of course the rulebook is nowhere to be found.

“Some people may play that way but it’s wrong.”

“Wrong? It’s house rules, baby.”

“House rules aren’t the same thing as something written into the _actual_ rules, Chris.”

“We play by your ‘ _suggestion_ ’ rule, don’t we? How’sit any different.”

Scott shouts a response from the other room, “It’s different!”

Chris exhales, making a face as he emits a frustrated groan, and turns his head to shout back at his brother, “Not. Helping.”

You brighten at Scott’s support even if he’s supposed to be playing the game with the extended Evans clan while you and Chris settled the ‘discussion’. If the family is on your side on this all you need to do is convince Chris…

“We’ve played that way – all the time! I think you’re just being sore over having to draw twelve.”

“Eight.” You laugh, correcting him, “And just cause you’ve played that way before doesn’t mean it’s right.”


	4. D is for Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another new set of characters

**O** ption A: aimlessly wander while you wait for your friend’s dance class to end so the pair of you can go get dinner. Option B: sit and observe. You choose the latter. It’s summer, and honestly you didn’t wear the right shoes for aimless wandering.

You settle in as everyone pairs off, letting your attention drift over the varied individuals that had signed up for the class – some are clearly couples, some simply friends, some look to be strangers who have only just met and are testing out this common interest. Maybe you should try something similar… or rather, you might if you thought you could make more than one in five classes. Your schedule is too up in the air to commit to anything.

“Excuse me.”

Shit. You’re about to be told you’ve got to move. You start readying yourself for the adventure of finding something to do for the next hour and change, moving your focus to the man that seems to be in charge. Oh, yes, it’s the teacher that your friend has been going on and on about. Cuteness personified. Shame – it would have been nice to watch him wiggle around the room…

“We’re missing a student,” he indicates the rest of the room, his focus still on you. “Mind helping me out?”

“Uh…” You freeze halfway to standing. No? Can you say no without risking getting kicked out?

He scrunches up his face, rearranging his features quickly back to his pleasant smile, “It’s just so I don’t have to break up a pair, leave someone partnerless.”

“I’m… really just here to watch.”

“A quick demonstration.” He holds his hand up to flash you Scouts Honor, “And I’ll release you to the chairs to supervise once more. Promise.”

-

“Loosen up.”

“What?” You’ve been listening to his instruction – that low timbre stream of words that is in such close proximity. You thought his attention had gone elsewhere, around the room to the other students, so you’d let your mind wander as he led the pair of you – stepping with practiced motions – through the couples.

He isn’t supposed to be focusing on you. You’re not a paying student.

“Your hips. Loosen them up.” He releases your hand – the only contact that he’d initiated until now – and drops his hand down to settle on the curve of your hip, guiding your body along with the steps. “And stop trying to lead. That’s my job.”

-

“You should come back next month. Or signup, rather.”

Your friend has paused to change her shoes, so the pair of you are stationary when he pops over to bid you both goodnight. You end up responding over your shoulder at first, then turning to follow him as he keeps moving. “Oh? Am I that bad at waltzing?”

He stutters out a laugh, his cheeks going a bit pink, “No. No. It’s just that – we’ll be moving on to the salsa.”

“Oooooh!” Your friend chirps with excitement.

Well, he’s got one student at least.


	5. F is for Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ A return of bodyguard!Tom ]

**S** he's seated across the small table from him, over there giggling over the paper she's reading while picking absently at the breakfast plate she’d ordered. There are scant few others already in the dining area, the day’s activities a few hours away yet. She’s giggling and driving him a little further towards madness while he broods over his coffee.

"What."

"Oh Thomas," she lays the tabloid down on the table between them and points to part of the page, "Look. You look fit for murder." 

It takes him a second to blink back at her, following from the safety of the spot at her temple down her arm to see where those delicate fingers of hers are pointing. Photos. Of them out to dinner the first day they’d arrived. 

She's not wrong. He does look murderous. Strained. 

Now, on Day 3 of the conference, it feels like several years have passed since that night.

He swallows, following the reverse path back up towards her face, forgetting to mark the spot at her temple. _Thomas_. She called him by his given name. Not his surname, like she used to, like the rest of the team so frequently does. Not even her little nickname for him: _Mr. Stoic_. He’ll resume that identity later but for now... 

He lets a small smile tug at his lips, “That _was_ the second suit of the evening.” 

His comment draws a brighter laugh out of her, just like he knew it would, and makes those hazel specks in her eyes seem to sparkle. Solomon had thrown up all over the first, prompting a return to the suites to put one bodyguard to bed and clean up the other.

"Oh. Speaking of--” she tips her eyebrows up as she glances at the ceiling as though she can see through the many floors up at the man laid out with the flu, “Should we get something for him?” 

The distraction works in his favor, allowing him to withdraw back into his chair, back to the comfortable norm that _should_ exist between them. He nods as he refocuses – better to go ahead and turn his attention anyplace other than her – on the breakfast buffet, “I’ll grab him a plate. Fruit. Maybe some toast.”

In his peripheral vision he notes when she turns her attention away from the ceiling. He feels the exact moment she locks those hazel eyes on him, finding his focus carefully locked on something else. The mirth that had stirred something more between them fades in the silence that follows.

He dips his focus down to her plate, gauging how much she’s eaten in a faux consideration of how much longer they’ll be ‘eating’. She’s not buying it, he can tell from the way she exhales, feeling the confusion and fire behind her eyes burning into him. Keeping his eyes averted from her face he risks a quick glance at the photos that had made her laugh – the pair of them on the printed page in black and white.

Bad idea. She moves her hand to cover the images, flattening her hand onto the table like she’s readying to stand, or say something. He makes a show of examining the fresh faces entering the room from the direction of the elevator bay, clearing his throat to try to find whatever it was that resembled normal between them, these days.

“Give it up, _Thomas_.”

The way she says his name doesn’t have the same softness to it that she’d used not five minutes before. He blinks, unable to stop himself from flying right past the Safe Zone around her temple, locking his eyes on hers.

“It’s just going to be me and you for the next four days. So, drop the Mr. Stoic act.”

His mouth fires out a reply before it even gets processed by the speech center of his brain. Eye contact with her apparently has adverse effects, “Or else?”

The sparkle returns, along with the slightest glimmer of a smile that she fights to hide from him. Too late, he’s seen it. At least she isn’t glaring daggers into him anymore.

She exhales, catching the attention of a waiter to wave them over, “We’d like to order something for our friend up in the room. Something – easy on the stomach. That won’t stain? Or at least will come out if dry cleaning is necessary.”


	6. Q is for Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ An appearance by Theo and Poppy from Hitman for Hire ]

**T** heo looks down at the ring on his finger, cupping his hand slightly so he can run his thumb over the rose gold streak. The oxidized silver has already started to brighten, just as the jeweler behind the counter warned. If he wanted the gunmetalesque patina to remain he’d have to remove the ring before washing his hands, showering, swimming… In his line of work? It’ll match the ring he gave Poppy before the year is out.

He flips his hand over, flattening his palm over his thigh. Now that he’s put it on, had it on for a few days, he’s not sure he ever wants to take it off. He likes it there – the weight of it, what it means.

It was meant to aid in the job, help him hide in plain sight. Security at the event was more likely to zero in on a lone stranger rather than a husband and wife enjoying a night out on the town.

“Is it bothering you?”

Theo inhales, shifting a little in the easy chair as he smiles up at Poppy. He’d heard her approaching, registered it somewhere – not as a threat, but as a comfort. Just like the ring.

“You can take it off.” She’s laughing at him, a bit. “It isn’t bound to your skin.”

He tips his thumb into the curved metal again, touching it as he beckons her closer with a flick of his head. She’s still wearing the ring he’d provided, offered her with little fanfare as he explained the nature of the job he’d been contracted to do. Her ring glints in the sunlight as she steps into the box of warmth streaming in the windows to his right.

When she’s within arm’s reach he scoops her into his lap, letting her get settled before he takes a deep breath, loosely wrapping his arms around her. Resting his hand in her lap, his gaze is drawn back to the dark metal circling his finger. “Who says I want it off?”

Poppy traces over the back of his hand, fingertips grazing from his wrist up towards his knuckles. “You haven’t stopped messing with it since you put it on.”

Theo stays quiet longer than he probably should, considering her words. He flips his hand over, hers slipping into place so that the metal clinks together as he closes his hand around hers. “I’ll need to figure out how it changes the weight of my hand.”

Now Poppy remains silent. When he looks up at her she’s making that face she makes when she’s trying to figure out the riddles that spring from his lips.

“Would you marry me, if I asked?”

She smiles as she tips her head, tucking herself into him at a slightly different angle as she replies, “Are you asking me?”

“I’m serious, Pip.” He tips his shoulder just enough to jostle her. Not enough to make her sit up, because he’s not sure he wants to be able to see her face when he says what he’s thinking. “Could you marry a man like me?”

“A man like you.”

He hears the scowl coloring her voice, and then she twists so that he doesn’t have to listen and suppose, mind filling in the expressions. He quickly releases her hand to slide his arms into a new position, catching around her waist to hold her steady for this new way she’s precariously perched in his lap.

Now he can watch every little emotion passing over her face.

“Why do you think I’m here? Now?”

He tips his head, arching his eyebrows as he inhales and contemplates his reply.

“Theo.” Poppy pinches at his torso, “That wasn’t a trick question.” Her annoyance had briefly washed out all the humor from her expression, but in a blink it has returned, accompanied by an air of exasperation. “For such a smart man you’re incredibly dense.”

He barks out a laugh, giving her hips a tug to settle her back against him, relishing the way she tucks herself into his arms, “Well. I was _hoping_ it wasn’t just for the thrill of it.”


	7. O is for Orchard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apple-orchard/ farmer!Tom has been in my drafts for far too long. Time to say hello!

"Oh!" She grabs the top of the ladder as it wobbles, nearly sending the basket she'd perched at the top of the ladder tumbling to the ground. Hopefully she won't follow.

"Careful there."

The heat of the day hasn't burned off yet, even here under - or is it in the middle of - the apple trees. She's thankful for it as she peers over her shoulder at the man moving towards her at a slow jog, it helps hide her embarrassment. The ladder wiggles a little more, swaying her side to side just a bit as he reaches the old wooden A frame, steadying it.

It takes her a second to feel secure enough to let go of the ladder again. And then remember her manners. “Ah… thanks.”

He beams up at her in, “Anytime. Nobody offered to be your spotter?”

"Oh. One of the..." She twists a little to try to look towards the booth back near the road, but then decides maybe that's not the best plan as the ladder tries to wobble despite how he’s holding it. "Yes. Someone did. I thought I was ok. I **am** ok. Just couldn’t resist –” she swings her gaze back up to the apples in the tree, “picking a few.”

“I know the feeling.”

She checks, because she can hear the laughter in his voice, but he’s not laughing at her. He’s nodding, squinting up and smiling with barefaced honesty. She leans her weight forward onto the frame of the ladder a little more, relaxing just a little against the weathered wood. “I saw the Pick Your Own sign out on the road when I was driving through this morning, but it was too early to stop.”

He squints one eye closed, scrunching the corresponding side of his face a little as well, “Must’ve been pretty early, then.”

“Yea.”

A light breeze rustles the branches of the trees, shifting the shadows and shards of sunlight that cross his face, briefly illuminating the brilliant blue of his eyes. He tips his head back a little more, shifting his focus to the branches above her, “Picked a good tree.”

“It was where the ladder was.”

This time it doesn’t matter that he’s laughing. She’s laughing too.

“Ok, Miss You’ve-Got-This—”

“Hannah.”

He pauses at her interjection, testing her name on his tongue and waiting for her nod before continuing, “Hannah… let me help you get some good ones, and then – a snack before you get on the road?”

Oh. Food. Yes. She nods down at him, “Deal.”

“I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He clears his throat after a second, tucking his lips together quickly before clearing his throat and shifting back and forth quickly on his feet. “Ah. So… this tree – the apples in it are great for just about everything. A quick bite or a pie or…”

Tom clearly has a passion for the apple orchard. What was the saying – do something you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life? That’s Hannah’s goal, too, the whole reason why she’s been out scouting locations all day. Now is as good a time as any to leave the city and start up that bistro she’s been dreaming about.

She’s got more than enough apples far too soon, and they’ve covered more topics than she thought possible in such a short conversation. The bakers dozen in her basket will last her through until her next trip out of the city, but she finds herself wanting to know more about Tom and the many varieties of apples grown on the property. After maybe half an hour it already feels like they’ve known each other for years. Another half hour more and – and it’ll be fast approaching time for her to get on the road and head home.

But she had promised, food and drink. Hannah follows along as Tom leads the way back to the booth to pay. He’s carrying the basket of apples like it doesn’t weigh a thing even though she knows just how heavy it was when she handed it down to him.

He catches her checking the time and lifts the basket up to check his own watch, hemming out a reluctant noise as they walk. "We’ll get you one of Bess' fritters for the road. Recipe handed down over generations, made fresh this morning with some apples from the tree she used to use. And some cider, but we’ll save the hard cider for the next time you come through.”

Next time. Hannah smiles, liking the sound of that. Why hadn’t she found a place to stay locally? Because she wanted to save all her funds for the place she was going to purchase, the bistro she was determined to open sometime next year. So long as she had an apartment in the city – ugh, so very far away – she was going to commute back to her own bed.

Hunger drives her to take a bite of the fritter she’s presented, hunger and the divine scent that greets her nose. “Ooooh,” she moans as she chews and swallows. The length of the day was what had done it. And the heat. And his eyes on her. It’s the best thing she’s put in her mouth in recent memory, her own cooking included. “Oh, it’s perfect.”

Tom’s nose and cheeks are a few shades pinker than they were a moment before, and he laughs, “Bess’d love to hear you say that.”

“You said the recipe was handed down?” Hannah barrels on, determined to sidestep her embarrassment over moaning like that in front of a man she’s only just met this afternoon. “Do you – do you think they’d mind if I put it on the menu?”

“At your bistro?”

“Yea. Using the correct apples, if you think the owner of the orchard would consider a contract with me? Once I get up and running.”

Tom ducks his head to wipe some sweat off the back of his neck, grinning as he shoves his hands back into his jeans pockets and settling his stance again, “Yea. I think the family’d be happy to work something out with you.”

“Yea? You think?”

“I know.” His blue eyes sparkle, “I'm Bess' grandson, and I own the orchard.” 


	8. S is for S'mores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ imagine Chris (and Dodger) Evans ]

“Chris?”

“Almost done. Almost –got – it.”

You look up at the canopy of trees before turning to shake your head at the pup curled up at your side. Dodger has just about given up, too, or at least has decided it’s safer to come sit with you by the fire until Chris is finished doing whatever it is he’s doing to that tent. It’s got this weird sagging bit in the middle, and you’re _pretty_ sure one of the stakes to hold it taut is still in the bag.

“Ok, Boy Scout. When you decide you want help with that, let me know.”

You’d handed the fire pit, setting up the camping chairs, taking Dodger for a quick scout around the site (and pee – it had been a long car ride). Chris’ mission had been to get the sleeping quarters squared away. You glance at the vehicle, the sleeping gear and your bags still packed inside.

“One more minute.” Chris sounds a little strained, and the fabric of the tent shudders.

“Take a break? Your hot dog’s about done, babe. And I’m ready for s’mores…. Plus, Dodge looks like he’s about ready for B-E-D.”

There’s a sudden swish of movement and Chris’ head appears from behind the entrance flaps to the tent, as though he needs visual proof of your claims. He’s got a goofy grin on his face, the light flush to his cheeks matching the slightly wild nature of his hair. He’s finally convinced you to go camping with him after months of asking. He hasn’t yet hit the point of regret over the purchase of the new tent, but if you give him another twenty minutes he might just ask for you to grab the instructions and help. Maybe.

The thought of food seems to appeal to him, at any rate. He licks his lips, looking at the lone hot dog on the extendable roasting spit you’ve got propped up where he should be sitting.

Then he notices what you’ve got on the end of your roasting spit. He takes a step out of the tent, one hand holding fast to whatever line or pole he’s been trying to figure out, one hand on his hip. “Hey. You got into the marshmallows already.”

“I _said_ I was ready for s’mores.”

Chris moves to take another step towards you but then seems to think wiser of it, perhaps remembering the still-yet-to-be-secured nature of the innerworkings of the tent. “I was thinking that was like a ten-minute warning.”

“You had a ten-minute warning ten minutes ago.” You smirk at him, all but able to read the thoughts passing through his head. He’s tempted to just let the tent fall. Hemming, you wink at him, “But I could probably be persuaded to share.”

He narrows his eyes at you for a second before looking towards the crackling fire throwing off just enough heat to keep you toasty. He’s already expressed, in great detail, how he plans on keeping you warm tonight. You halfway wonder if he’s remembered that he can’t exactly temporarily barricade Dodger from ‘the bedroom’ tonight.

“Uh huh….” He drops his gaze to Dodger, “Queen of sharing, isn’t she, Booboo?” Dodger defends your honor, snorting in response and making Chris heave a low sigh, muttering under his breath even though he’s grinning. “Traitor.”

“Are you going to let me help, soon?”

Chris frowns for a split second, “I’ve got this…. Uh… and Babe?”

“Yea?”

He waves his free hand in your direction, “Your marshmallow’s on fire.”


	9. W is for Wedding Buddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another moment from The Wedding Checklist [Chris Evans]

**M** ost of the wedding party looks like they're feeling about the same as you are: like they'd rather still be in bed this morning, or at least in a room that wasn't quite so brightly lit. The stained-glass windows of the chapel filter and soften some of the mid-morning light shining in, but not enough... not nearly enough.

Connor plonks himself down next to Chris on the pew behind you, one eye seemingly permanently squinted shut. "I told the stragglers still shoveling in food to hurry it up. The rest of us are waiting." He casts a concerned glance at Chris's unmoving form, his friend's head firmly planted on his arm on the back of your pew, and then looks to you and mouths: _he ok?_

You shrug and start to laugh, but then rethink your mirth. Food, water, and a dose of something didn't quite rid you of the headache and way the space behind your eyes keeps pulsing this morning. Clearly Chris is regretting his insistence on trying to outdrink you last night, or maybe he'd stayed up once everyone parted ways and ventured back to their rooms. You haven't tried to ask. You've got your own hangover to worry about. "Should I make a note of who I'll need to chase down tomorrow?"

"Nah," Connor slides in place a little on the pew to survey the rest of the members of the wedding party already amassed, likely looking for Amy. "They miss the wedding – they miss the wedding."

"Amy might feel differently about that."

The words are muffled by the way he's hunched over but at least Chris is awake and paying attention. You and Connor exchange a brief look before Connor leans over to flickChris hard on the spot just behind his ear.

Chris groans as he sits up and slides a little further down the pew to escape his friend's reach, rubbing at his neck as he shakes his hair from his eyes. A bright red mark is already forming on his forehead and arm as result of the way he'd been sitting and is probably gaining another where Connor had landed the blow. Chris blinks hard before focusing on you, nodding carefully, "Pro'lly should make a list."

"Thanks for that show of support." You'd roll your eyes at him but that might set off a different type of headache. You're battling enough as it is. Maybe you should've tried a little harder to get the kitchen to make a hangover cure to go with your omelet you had at breakfast.

Connor leans to poke in Chris' direction but his effort gets parried, " _I_ think that was an offer to help."

"Yea," Chris shoves Connor's outstretched hand aside and scoots a little further away, half standing to take an extended stride and place himself well out of Connor's reach. "Anything my wedding buddy needs."

"Oh. Nice." You watch as Chris opts out of switching rows the normal way, instead vaulting to join your row. " _Now_ it's anything I need. Last night at the bar wasn't it: not unless you get up and sing?"

"Who drove you around yesterday running errands?"

You start to slide yourself backwards in a poor attempt to stay out of whatever is starting to develop between Chris and Connor. You don't want anything to do with a slap fest, but don't really feel like putting in the effort of standing and walking away from them, either. "I thought you volunteered for that job. And _no_ – don't you – **sit**." You point at Chris, knowing it'll be futile. Your back discovers the end of the pew far too quickly. "Sit down. Right there. I learned my lesson. I don't want any part of shenanigans the pair of you pull."

Chris sits just about where you pointed, but then slides the rest of the way to bump into your legs, grinning the whole time. "Oh c'mon. Last night was fun."

"You _do_ remember the hour we spent backtracking, looking for your phone, right?"

He has enough sense to look a little sheepish, shit-eating-grin aside.

You do your best to maintain your frown, "When it was in your other pocket the whole time. Some of us were wearing **heels**."

"Which he did offer to hold." Connor leans forward to rest his forearms on the back of the pew, leaning until he can make eye contact, peering around Chris as he comes to his buddy's defense. 

Getting up is _so_ unappealing, but so is having the pair of them gang up on you. Who said that rehearsals had to happen as early in the day as the future wedding was planned? Where was that written? "Uh-huh," you deadpan, taking a breath to ready yourself for the adventure of standing and seeking out Anywhere But Here. "Next time I'm wearing combat boots."

"At the rehearsal dinner tonight?" Chris seems to be perking up, making you want to ask what his remedy for hangover cure was. It took delayed effect, but it clearly works better than what you tried. "Or are you saying you're up for round two: Battle of the Ballads?"

No. No more singing. No more karaoke and _please_ no more heavy drinking. Your liver will start a coup. "No. That wasn't what—" Your denial comes too late to do much good. They're already plotting when and how another night out on the town can happen. 


	10. Z is for Zipper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A moment from A Turn of the Knife ]
> 
> I almost skipped this one for the fact that we haven't quite gotten there in Turn, but then I decided what the hell. Enjoy the future moment!

**T** he city is humming in your veins, whispering in your ear, urging you to drink – to take – to touch – to fuck. Ransom’s in there, too, warping your inner world with the sounds he’d made in that video.

 _You should have picked up_.

How many times had you watched it? The way he’d grinned – no, sneered – and dropped his mouth open, emitting a noise of delight before flipping the camera around on his phone to show you **why** : the blonde settled on her knees between his and waiting for instruction. How he reached to tangle his fingers in her already tangled hair and groaned as she reached up to palm his groin. The sound of his zipper opening. The instructions he gave her.

Fuck. Even without the visual aid you still feel a reaction.

It was precisely why he’d sent the video: he wanted a reaction. He likely wanted you to call him and have you return the favor, set up your phone somewhere so he could instruct and watch.

Joke’s on him, though. In Baltimore? Your city? You can find so many other ways to find a release. You will likely pay for it come sunrise, but that’s never stopped you before. It’ll be like old times… except maybe this time you can call Hannah rather than having to get Karen to come for you. Anything’s better than having to admit to the woman that raised you, the one person from the household that you care what they think, that you’ve fucked up again, fell back into old habits.

You close your eyes, leaning forward as you clench your thighs together, breathing through your mouth to try to realign yourself with your environment. The bar is doing you no favors, really, but that was kind of the point. You hadn’t found any satisfaction in taking matters into your own hands, your fingers unable to find the tipping point, the release you were after.

And so – out into the night. The city won’t disappoint. Never has, never will.

 _Drink, **drink** – _Baltimore urges – _flirt, smile. Dance and sway and seduce. Find someone to fuck._

Yes. You’re working on it. This bar isn’t quite your old stomping grounds, only a few blocks away from your hotel, but that’s likely your last bit of restraint coming into play. What will the repercussions be for backsliding? And do you care? They’ll restrict funds again, more than likely, but then they’ve already requested your presence. It’s not as though they can hem and sigh and make you feel anything. The effectiveness of their attempt at guilting into doing what they want has long waned.

But has it, really? Your contempt for your parents and the way they failed means something, doesn’t it? It means…

You shudder, shaking yourself out of the analysis that should be undertaken someplace else. Another time when your system isn’t humming for something more.

_More. MORE._

A light cheer catches your attention – a rowdy cluster arriving to celebrate something. One by one they trickle in, their jubilation capturing the occasional sideways glance from the others already here drinking. One. Two. Three. Four. The group keeps pouring in the door, making their way to a table they clearly occupy regularly. Will their arrival mean free drinks for – oh.

Declan.

He hasn’t noticed you, his head turned in the opposite direction as he responds to something that was said. You reassess the group as you take another sip of your drink. Are these his friends? Fellow artists out to celebrate his success at the showcase today? You watch as they settle in, one of them waving across the room to try to catch the eye of the bartender, or a waiter, all laughter and smiles and jokes. 

They want a night to remember? You can help with that.

Leaving your drink at your table you slip through the patrons up to the bar, “Hey. That table that just sat down? Those guys?” You wait for a nod of recognition, a curious glance at the indicated table before they look at you again. “Whatever they want. Top shelf. On me.”

An unwise splurge, particularly if your family is going to clamp down on your trust fund again, but the decision has been made. Done and done. It’s not enough to quiet the call of the city, the urges you feel within, but it’s a start.

“Hey.”

You turn to find Declan staring, a look of confusion half-hidden beneath surprise. He’s not standing close enough for your taste. Not yet. You look beyond him to his table, all his friends watching, before looking back at him again. He’s changed from the more formal outfit he’d been wearing at the showcase. He’d looked great in his tan slacks and button down but appears much more at home in the dark jeans he’s wearing now. “Hello again.”

Someone from the bar has approached their corner table, and a quick discussion appears to be taking place. Someone shouts Declan’s name to pull his attention away, a wordless conversation ensuing via gestures and pointing.

_She’s paying? Rounds? What’s going on?_

Declan’s look of surprise gains strength as he zeroes in on you again. “Oh. Is that – ok? Allowed?”

You smile at him and take a step closer, “For the gallery to help you celebrate? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Um. Well…”

He looks unsure for a moment, licking his lips as he thinks. It makes you want to see what else you can make him do with his mouth.

Taking another step closer you reach out to touch his arm, “If you don’t mind me ruining boys’ night, that is.”

If he were Ransom you’d already be seeing a reaction in his eyes, the hunger within. If he were Ransom he’d likely have you pinned to be bar, by now. If he were Ransom you’d know just what other devilish things those lips could accomplish. If he were –

That look of confusion has started to return, just barely there to color the sparkle of his eyes, the brilliance of his smile. Declan exhales a shaky laugh and swallows, “It’d be a pleasure. Can I introduce you to everyone?”

“I’d like that.”

Declan’s hand cautiously slides around your waist as he guides you through the thickest part of the crowd to be able to rejoin his table. His hand graces the area over your spine once, hovering over the bottom of your zipper but then he pulls away.

_Not enough. Not enough. More more **more.**_

More. Yes. That’s the plan. You’ll get him to take you home. See more of the art that he’d promised to show you, and then see how talented he is at other things.


	11. B is for Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ from the world of Unsettled ]

**I** t had been a good day, a much-needed respite from the hectic workweek. He'd had a hectic series of weeks, really, that had left him feeling a little spent and more than a little worn through. By nothing short of a blessing from above it hadn't turned into something that festered further in the space remaining between him and Max's mother. There's still a distance there he's working his way to bridging, the aim being to remove it entirely.

They'd spent the whole day enjoying time spent with his mother. How long had it been since he'd taken Max's mother to see Diana? Too long. Entirely too long. But then things hadn't quite been suited for it. Not how things had stood. But they've been making progress. Leaps and bounds of progress. Conversations to clear the air and dig out the sour crevasses that still remained.

During their return to the city he'd considered trying again to see if he could change Max's mother's mind. She'd been resolute during the morning commute, determined that she and Max would return to her house this evening and depart the following morning for the school adventure with Max's classmates.

He, sadly, couldn't attend. Work, and the complications his presence would bring. The kids didn't need that distraction.

Tom stretches one arm up over his head, heaving out a great sigh before tossing his keys at the bowl on the entryway table.

Something – seems – _different_. Off.

He slowly lowers his arm, peering around at the empty house. It's not just that he misses them – desperately wishes they were here with him. That's not it at all. He frowns, puzzling it out as he walks further into the house. It's something else. Something else... but...

The smell. The scent wafting through the air. Fresh laundry and... damp? He'd run a load of clothes through the dryer just before he'd tucked Max under his arm and dashed out the door this morning, keen to pick up Max's mother and get on their way.

No. It's not the scent of dryer sheets that he can detect. It's the smell of the laundry detergent he's been able to start using again without pangs of remorse. But why???

He squints as he continues towards the kitchen and laundry room, brow furrowing deeper as he makes his way through the house, trying to puzzle out an answer that makes any bit of sense. Then he flicks on a light and stops short. There's foam – bubbles creeping out of the kitchen and into the main room. Bubbles everywhere. He approaches with caution, taking in the sight. Bubbles upon bubbles – they've consumed the kitchen, making it so he can only wonder where the kitchen table and chairs are. The counters? His eyebrows inch up as he sucks in a breath, slowly blowing the air back out with a mystified groan.

How had this happened?! And where does he even begin to start cleaning it up?

His phone starts to buzz in his pocket, prompting him to remove it and answer without blinking his focus away from the scene before him, " 'lo?"

"It's me. I just wanted to make sure you made it home?"

He hesitates before answering, his attention still locked, "Yea... I guess."

"You guess?" She questions, finding a humor he can't quite touch at the moment, "It's a yes or a no, Tom. Did you make it home alright?"

"Yea," he repeats, detachment between the moment and the words leaving his mouth unsurmountable. He can make out the divot in the foam along the counter-line in the vicinity of the sink and dishwasher. That's half the how. And the other half?

Oh.

Max.

The few minutes this morning when Little Man had left his sight, his focus dedicated to making sure he'd packed all of Max's things into his son's day bag. Had the little dervish gotten it into his head to 'help Daddy clean'?

Help. Ha!

Tom swallows, giving himself a full body shake to break free from his fugue state. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing. It was a good day."

He can tell from her tone that she's pissed from the way he's answering, the residual good from the day almost gone. He clears his throat, turning his back on the mess he's going to have to stay up cleaning, focusing on her voice and the overwhelming desire he has to wrap her up in his arms, "It was. A very good day. I'm sorry I came home to – something – it's got me distracted. Thank you for today."

She's hesitant in answering. It makes him frown anew.

"Yes. Ok. Well... I'm glad you're home. Safe."

"I'll send you a picture in a minute."

"O-k." She doesn't sound interested in reasons, or pictures. She just sounds like she wants to get off the phone. "Just wanted to say good—"

"I love you." He talks over her, blurting out he words.

"—night. I love you too, Tom." Her tone has softened again. She's not as chipper, there's no smile to her words – not that he can hear. But she means what she says. He can hear that, at least.

He closes his eyes as he exhales a single word – _goodnight_ – before they end the call. She'll be tucking Max into bed and then to sleep, herself. He's got... he shakes his head as he turns on his heel... he's got a long long night ahead of him. With a mirthless laugh he snaps a photo, the flash illuminating the mound of bubbles between him and sleep.

 _Little Man's work is never done? ---_ He taps out a message before sending it. Maybe she'll reply. Maybe she'll call him back. Maybe she'll set up her phone on the beside table and keep him company, talking to him as she lay there watching him work. Maybe he's on his own. 


	12. R is for Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ a tie in for the Loki WISH series - finally a glimpse into that impossible to untangle head of his ]

__

_[ From the Loki WISH series: A post WISH4 moment from Loki ]_

**T** he last warrior falls – gatekeeper or guard or sentry sent from elsewhere in pursuit of those fleeing. The who they were doesn't matter. The why doesn't matter. None of it matters.

He snarls at the burn of his muscles, at the bodies of the creatures that had held her here, taken her here, _tortured her here._ His clothes are tattered in places where they got in lucky blows, but he stands – stands – stands victorious amongst the carnage.

Loki wavers on his feet, breathing hard, and steps over one of the fallen to steady himself against a nearby structure. Tattered, a little bit bloody – but _most_ of that is _theirs_ – he turns inward as he takes one step, and another, and another. Now – now what?

By the Norns, this wasn't the plan. He wasn't supposed to survive. How had he survived?

The first few minutes it had been the drive to see her safely away. He'd wanted her away from this place. Safe. Safe. Safe translated to in his brother's arms and gone from here.

And then? Then it was rage. Rage at what they'd done. His agent was still a burning flame, but different somehow, too. Something had been stolen in the time it had taken him to form a plan. He'd taken so long to get to her. Nearly too long.

He drops the blade he's been holding, hearing – but not hearing – as it clatters to the ground at his feet. His fingers ache, hating this new movement, these new demands he's making. There, under the debris and blood, is the burned edge of something familiar.

This is where they'd left him, where Thor had cursed him for changing the plan but cradled her close and called upon a way home.

Home.

Asgard.

They'd tend her, there. They'd keep her safe from any that might come. They'd see her well. They'd quickly see to it that she was no longer covered in blood. 

Her blood.

Blood _he'd_ spilled. 

He shudders, leaning more of his weight into the structure at his back. A wall? A building? It doesn't matter.

He tips his head forward, cradling his head in his hands before dropping them in his lap again. The transference of ick from one part of his body to another as he steadies himself doesn't matter. What does matter? He's here. He's still breathing, and _they_ are **not**. He'd vowed to retaliate and kept his promise.

And now? What now?

Now he needs to see her, needs to know that Thor was able to get her proper care – that they were able to save her from the damage he'd done. It's not just the dagger strike to her torso that he regrets. It's the cruel words, every cruel word he's hurled at her and never apologized for. He regrets the kisses he stole, the dreams he infiltrated and twisted to his own desires – all to have her even while the world, the universe, thought him dead. Leaving her standing in the snow in the sub-arctic, unable to tell the truth but unable to fully lie about what had transpired, honor bound to something – _someone –_ she couldn't quite put faith in.

How many times had he left her to face the consequences of his presence? He regrets every doubt he's caused, every moment of uncertainty she's suffered since she walked towards his glass prison all those years ago whispering his name.

_Lo-ki._

He needs to hear her say it again. 


	13. A is for Absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ At the risk of giving something away I'm withholding what work this is tied to, and blanking out the name of the character we're seeing in this segment. There's a fair few clues held within, though. ]

It's early. He never used to get up this early – not when he was alone, anyway. Birds aren't even up yet. He plods down the stairs, petulant at the hour, and sprawls out on the sofa to see if maybe a change in locale will help matters.

It doesn't.

Restless, ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ watches as the sun rises a little further, the angle of the rays through the trees surrounding his house changing as the morning progresses. The muted colors of morning gain vibrance, the greys and shadows slowly receding.

He's up because she was there in his dreams – she was there smiling at him, laughing. Surprisingly, he misses the sound. Misses her.

"I am an island." He mutters to himself, his voice dull to his ears, though it should echo through the house. He is an island in a big empty house. He glares at the wall of windows, at the forest hemming him in. He used to like the seclusion. Now –

Peeling himself up off the sofa he paces the room, seeking a new perspective, a new position from which to view his surroundings. He jams his foot into the coffee table for his efforts. The venom of his sharp string of curses fills the room for a moment before the house descends into oppressive quiet once more.

He turns his glare away from the offending piece of furniture to the art on the walls, lashing his hatred out at every inanimate object he can focus on – everything touched by, everything a stand in for her. This is her fault. All of it. Her fault. Her decisions had forced his, forced the turn of events that left him standing here frowning at the absence of her.

He exhales a low growl, turning his attention to the bookcases close at hand. He scans the titles as he approaches the shelves, searching for one in particular – bypassing his grandfather's novels, skipping over those far too familiar that by rights should bear another name. His fingertips trace over well worn bindings, paper and fabric and leather alike.

Finally, he finds what he's looking for, a book he hasn't returned to since graduating. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ hooks his fingers over the headcap to tip it out of its spot among its brethren. It's not so much the words on the page he's seeking, but a clipping that he'd shoved in between the pages. He thumbs the book open to flip quickly past stories he knows, scanning for the paper that doesn't belong – that article from the Baltimore Tribune.

There. He flattens the folded piece of paper to be able to read it, the corners of his mouth tugging tighter, a small smile forming as he reads the huge bold words spanning the top of the clipping:

MISSING


	14. I is for Identical

**T** he document is due in a matter of days and he hasn't responded to your revisions, nor will he acknowledge the pings you've sent him this morning. You know he's at work. You saw him filter in with the rest of the small group working on the project. Everyone has been burning the candle at both ends to meet the deadline. You've started seeing charts in your sleep, crunching numbers as you toss and turn.

Irritation drives you up and out of your chair. You can **_see_** movement from his workstation, legs sprawled out from behind the dividing wall, knees and feet swaying in a lazy motion as he apparently has bum-fuck else to do but lean back in his chair and swivel away the day.

He's not talking through a problem. He's not been pulled another direction by someone else on the floor, his opinion desired for input on their project. You can't hear his distinctive laugh, or a low-level muttering that you've learned to tune out – his go-to-method for working through a problem.

Maybe he needs another pair of eyes? Supervision to help move towards the goal. Maybe another pair of hands... though the temptation right now is to march over and strangle him. You need to know if he can resolve everything you'd noted in your revisions. You need to know if you'll be staying late, again delaying the reward for the completion of the project, or if you can start looking forward to the much-needed rejuvenating massage.

If he would just answer your pings. What good is an internal messenger system if he won't acknowledge the queries.

The fact that you're standing in place wins you a few curious glances from your coworkers. Maybe... if you get a coffee from the breakroom? A little more caffeine in your system probably won't help but it's a distraction. Except your feet carry you away from the breakroom, leading you towards the man that seems content to while away the morning.

Casual Fridays are evil, you've decided. There's no reason for his denim clad legs to be any more problematic than the buttoned-up attire usually required around the office, but here you are in your frayed state imagining a scenario where you get to yank that dark denim off him.

Your mental fantasy screeches to an abrupt halt as you round the barrier to find him stretched out in the rolling chair, still swaying slowly back and forth. His hands are folded over his stomach, fingers laced together, his focus solidly caught on the ceiling tiles above him.

"What the hell, Chris."

The chair squeaks beneath him as he lurches upright, blinking at you standing there with your hands on your hips. You wouldn't have felt even a little bit sorry if his sudden motion had sent the chair sliding out from under him. Ok, maybe a little, but right now you're too tired and hungry and angry and borderline burnt out to care that you'd given him a start. If he'd been **_working_** it wouldn't have been an issue.

His mouth drops open, hinging to start to form a defense of his actions – or rather, inaction – but you're not having it. You flutter your eyes shut before squinting them open again, glaring at him as you shake your head, "No. I don't want to hear it. We're on a deadline here, or have you forgotten?"

A quick glance aside at his desktop shows his screen and the messenger window with your dialogue still sitting unanswered. At least the files are open on the screen, as well. He's just... ignoring it all.

"I know we're all exhausted. I get it. But..." You try to fight the urge to step forward and kick the bottom of his shoe. Anything would be better than the way he's got his legs sprawled out.

As though reading your mind, he rights himself a little more in the chair, drawing his feet back towards the rolling wheels beneath him. Which – would have been _fine_ , appreciated, even – except the action is coupled with a seeming appraisal of your outfit, and how close you're standing, and ends with a _damned look of amusement_ on his part.

Cue tirade, a bunch of words spilling out of your mouth causing a few curious coworkers to pop up from their chairs like meerkats, others leaning around cubicle walls to source the drama going down. It ends with you demanding that he have the decency to at least acknowledge messages and to let you know the project's status before the end of the day – _if it isn't too much trouble_.

After lunch, with a little food on your stomach to somewhat dilute level of caffeine in your system you realize maybe you were a little harsh on him. He'd gotten in _maybe_ four words? You hadn't even waited around for any sort of explanation, just told him off and then stormed off – the rest of the floor giving you a pretty wide berth regardless of their involvement in the project.

Add to that the business-as-usual updates from him for the rest of the day, not a single word or sidelong look from him about your outburst, and you're about ready to curl up and melt into the scenery as the end of the day approaches. Then comes the chipper notification from him announcing that all the revisions were completed, the entire group receiving a copy of the final revision of the project for everyone to look over, and a few exclamation marks behind well wishes for the weekend now that the project is behind the lot of you.

Ok. You're an ass and need to go apologize to him. Why hadn't he stopped you? Corrected your assumption that he was putting off the final steps of the project? If he was so close to being done all it would have taken was a few words to course correct your -- 

Oh, right. The few words you refused to let him utter.

It's an agonizing number of steps to bring you back to his cubicle where he's cleaning up in preparation for leaving, tossing the empty coffee cup from a place down the street and shoving a notepad and pencil into his desk drawer. You clear your throat to get his attention, hemming through a soft greeting. "Er. So... I'm sorry about this morning. It was unprofessional and uncalled for and... I feel like a monumental dick. But um, I looked over that final draft and..."

His eyebrows arch up before knitting together. He's likely wondering why you are rambling through what he already knows. Everyone had clicked to view the document and then responded that they were happy with it. Everyone could see the group chat and the acknowledgements. This is some piss-poor excuse of an apology.

"I wish you'd said something. But I guess today is just the day for me to put my foot in my mouth." You shrug, helpless.

He's clearly just as ready for the weekend, keen to get to whatever he's got planned to celebrate the end of the project – he's already changed his shirt and shoes from the company-acceptable bland that is allowed on casual Friday. The plain shirt was already so **so** problematic – somehow the faded band logo is worse.

You sidestep, already trying to turn to escape his presence as you issue a final apology, "So anyway, yep. I'm sorry."

There's that thing about return trips. When you're venturing to somewhere unknown it seems to take forever. When you're traveling a familiar path, the trip seems to take a blink of an eye. Really you should have bypassed returning to your desk. You should have gathered up all your things, issued the apology, and then ran for the door. Instead you settle into your chair and stare at the computer screen and start to fantasize about somehow sliding into the matrix of the digital world.

"Hey."

His quiet greeting and the soft knock on the frame of the cubicle wall makes you jump out of your daydream. Is he here to return fire, finally? You slowly turn to face him, readying yourself for what you're due.

"We all have _days_." His smile grows as he emphasizes the final word, his shoulders jumping with a short shrug.

If he didn't have his hands anchored in his pockets he'd be waving them around – an ever-expressive talker. Sometimes it made you want to tie him to the chair during meetings... which is a _super_ unhelpful thing to be focusing on at the moment. It's the too-tight shirt, the weather-worn logo stretched across his torso, amplifying the muscles he usually has hidden beneath layers. And the dark denim framing the hips you want to straddle. And –

"I'm supposed to be meeting my brother. Celebration of the completion of the project. But..."

You suck in a breath, feeling the heat of your fantasies pooling in places that make you want to squirm in your chair. Role reversal! He's the one standing at the edge of the cubicle and you're the one swaying in the swivel chair.

Wait. Is he asking you out for drinks?

"Are you asking me out for drinks?"

He digs one hand free from his front pockets, rushing to wave away perceived concern, "No pressure."

"No. I mean, yea. Drinks sound good."

"Ok then."

The awkward barrier built from your outburst starts to fade as the pair of you walk towards your destination. You notice that his phone keeps buzzing. He only responds to every third message, but then he did mention that he'd originally had plans with his brother. He holds the door, tapping out another reply as the pair of you arrive at the bar down the street.

"Look if this is delaying plans..."

He shakes his head, glancing up as he pockets his phone again. "No. Hey. We deserve this. Long overdue stress release."

That's true but doesn't do much to alleviate your concerns that you've interrupted established plans. "I'm trying not to dig my ' _I owe you_ ' hole any deeper. First round is on me, for the record."

"There's no owing anybody anything." His laugh is catching as he follows along towards the barstools you've set your sights on. "Just drinks. As for who is paying ..."

It's not up for debate, but if he wants to try to make it into a quick draw scenario that's on him. With the project finally behind you – barring any unforeseen issues discovered by higher-ups – you feel yourself start to relax. 

For the first time in – weeks? – you don't feel like you're trying to swallow while someone is sitting on your chest. Laughter is helping. Laughter and whatever those little bite things are that he ordered, too.

He's turned sideways, leaning his elbow on the bar-top and flicking pretzel pieces at your hands. This time when his phone buzzes it jumps off the edge of the bar and into his lap, but he doesn't bother responding to the message he reads off the screen. When you make a face at him he shrugs it off, "He's blown me off more times than I can count."

"You could invite him."

"Fuck no." He blinks at his own response and then emits a sheepish laugh, his cheeks coloring slightly. "I mean – I love him but, no. Not really in the mood to share. He can wait."

"Hey, dickface."

You turn, surprised by the unusual greeting, and then falter. You recognize the clothes: the sneakers, the snug dark denim, the plain shirt clinging to a well-defined torso. You blink and look back at the man sitting next to you who is currently rolling his eyes and groaning.

This must be what going crazy feels like.

You blink again, but nope – it's not a trick of the light.

There's two of them. Him. They're twins.

Your only saving grace at the moment is you _know_ which of them you left the office with, and while they're both in just about the same attire, one has a shirt with words on it. Not-Your-Coworker reaches out to pinch his brother's arm, hard. "The guy that gets the free drinks should be the guy that got his ass chewed by the office hottie." 


	15. V is for Vulnerable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ hello again bodyguard!Tom ]

"We should take a break, Tom. You're looking a little... somewhere between yellow and green."

His shirt is plastered to his skin, sweat drenching it darker in places. His baggy pants save him from the view of his angry knee – the reason for his current condition. He's bent forward, one hand tightly gripping the parallel bars meant to hem him in and aid with the exercise, one hand gripping just above his good knee as he does his best to keep from retching his breakfast all over the workroom floor. They won't thank him for a review of eggs and jam and toast. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to swallow down the bile surging up his throat. "I'm – fine. Good. Just. A… minute."

"Uh-huh.” He’s clearly not fooling anyone, particularly Judy. She exhales, “Callum. Make sure you catch him this time when he passes out.”

The man stationed not two paces away snorts in response, “Kept him from another concussion, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

Judy’s reply comes from farther off. Either he’s two seconds from a blackout or she’s going to get water, or possibly intending to wash her hands of her problematic client. Tom clenches his jaw, sucking in air through his nose before blowing it slowly through barely opened lips, fighting to control the nausea coursing through his body.

Take it slow.

Take it easy.

Don’t overdo.

The warnings they’d issued while preparing him for the road the recovery were all well and good but if he hears another soft assurance that ‘ _these things just take time_ ’, that his ‘ _body has to have time to heal_ ’ he’ll… His ears prick, pulling him back from the brink of delirium.

She’s here, talking to Judy. Talking. More like emitting a stream of consciousness in the form of never-ending questions and assertions. Judy is left to half sentences and partial explanations in response to the grilling she’s being subjected to.

He blinks his eyes open, half-focusing on the floor beneath his feet as a small smile tugs itself onto his lips. For once her determined focus isn’t aimed at him, aimed at unsettling her _Mr. Stoic_ , allowing him to view it from the outside and revel in her passion. He starts to stand and feels Callum move closer, the other man offering a steadying grip on his arm.

“Chair?”

Admitting _temporary_ defeat, Tom nods. “Chair.”

‘ _How is his progress? Is he still on the same regimen? I know you said…’_

His pulse is still thumping in his head, but now that he’s seated he doesn’t feel half as unsteady. Maybe it’s simply the fact that Callum isn’t hovering just off his shoulder anymore. He shifts the fabric of his workout pants around, tentatively testing the edges of brace layered beneath. He knows better than to press too steadily on his knee right now. He’d made that mistake at home and spent a good half hour on the floor in agony.

‘… _foolishly stubborn when he wants to be._ ’

He risks looking in their direction, locating Judy first to discover their progress into the room before turning his focus to the woman still prattling on about his condition like she doesn’t get by-the-minute progress reports from a variety of sources. It’s been a month since his release from hospital, a month and change since his medicated and unfiltered truths had been aired, settling into the space between them.

And now she’s here.

‘ _I read somewhere that swelling can lead to the joint and tendons not healing properly_.’

He’s read that, too, in excruciating detail. Not to mention the caution Judy and Callum advise. A fresh wave of nausea stirs his stomach, forcing him to tip forward from the way he’d relaxed against the chair back. Once gain his mouth tastes of bile. It seems no amount of swallowing will soothe the raw feeling in his throat.

“Water?” Callum to the rescue with a water bottle, as well as a towel and weighted pack, a silent message that today’s session is done.

Accepting the opened water bottle, irritation joins in with the swirls of nausea. He’s not progressing fast enough. He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s progressing fast enough. He hates not being able to do for himself, having to rely on crutches and others and feeling like he’ll never be at the level he was before. The doctors had assured him this wasn’t a career ending injury. It’s hard, right know, to see his way beyond this plateau of pain.

He clears his throat, interrupting the one-sided conversation between the two women. “I’m sitting right here.”

He regrets his interjection almost as soon as he says it, realizing that it’ll draw her gaze. He’s in his workout gear, sweaty, and – if Judy is to be believed – looking borderline seasick. Both women pause to look over at him, but it’s not Judy he’s focusing on. He forgets the relative safety of that spot at her temple, zeroing in on the brilliant hazel eyes he’s missed so much.

She may be looking at him, her focus locked, but she’s still talking to his trainers, “He’s listening when you advise him, right? _For the good of his health_?”

“Ah…”

He flicks his attention sideways to catch the grimace that flashes into view on Judy’s face as she hems out a response. It’s likely the same expression held on Callum’s face, if he felt up to twisting in his chair to confirm Callum’s reaction.

She isn’t looking at his trainers, though. She’s still looking directly at him, reading his frustration and dismay and guilt. “That’s what I thought.” She finally disengages to glance at each of the trainers in turn, “Give us a moment?”

Tom tips his head to flatten his water bottle-chilled palm against his face. This isn’t where he wanted to have this conversation. This isn’t the situation he ever wanted to get himself into. He hears the scrape of another chair being dragged closer to where he’s settled. Her quiet sigh.

“ _Thomas_.”

He tries to smile as he looks up at her. His discomfort prevents it from landing the way he wants it to. He should have called her the moment he was released to be on his own. He’d promised himself he would – and then didn’t want to sound as delirious, deliriously medicated, and weakened on the phone as he knew he was. Bad enough that she’d born witness to his post-surgical state while in hospital.

Each day he’d promised himself he’d call the following day – then the next day would arrive and he’d find another excuse.

And now here they are.

She’s as poised as always, always ready for the public eye. But there’s something else there, detectable beneath her outward presentation, hidden to all those who didn’t know what they were seeing. It was the way she’d done her makeup, how she’d chosen to style her hair. How she blinks. How she breathes. How she sits in the chair, studying him. “You look tired.”

Of all the things she could state about his appearance that was probably the kindest.

He fidgets with the water bottle, rotating it in slow circles within his grasp. “Napping is one of the few things _not_ on the naughty list.” He frowns, remembering the long list of things that everyone told him was ill-advised. Loving her needed to be penciled in. But then that was another list with an entirely different set of long-lasting ramifications. “You look…”

She tilts her head at him, her warning clear: there will be consequences to stating the truth he reads off her. Yes, she may be tired and worried and stressed but if he chooses to delve into that he needs to be prepared for the conversation that will follow.

It’s a conversation they need to have – but not here. He wants… He presses his mouth shut, clamping his lips down on the words trying to air themselves, forcing out a weak smile before pushing his focus away from her face. He’s powerless to keep his attention from pulling back to her. “Come over? Dinner. Tonight.”

Confusion sparks on her face, her surprise fluttering away within a blink of the eye. He thinks, for a second, she’s going to admonish him for the invitation, for the expectation that she’d be free to accept. Then she smiles, “Only if you promise to order in.”

Easy enough to agree to. He has no plans on hobbling around his kitchen trying to impress her. Not that his cooking would impress her, considering what she’s used to. And wine? Wine for her, anyway. Mixing alcohol with his medications was on that long long list of ill-advised actions.

“Tom?”

He blinks himself into motion, realizing that she’s waiting to see if he’ll accept her conditions. He nods slowly. Take away and a long overdue explanation.

It’s a start.


	16. X is for X-ray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ A glimpse into Ransom's head in A Turn of the Knife because how could that go wrong ]

**H** e's up because – well, because it's an unfamiliar environment and the strangeness of the sheets lured him awake far earlier than he was used to. Pretending _that's_ the truth is far better than admitting to himself the real reason _why_. The point is – the point is he's up, that much he's willing to concede.

A few other members of the family are awake as well. From his station at one end of the faux-rustic environment his mother dragged everyone to he observes their antics, flicking his attention from one to the next. He watches his father cross through the kitchen, ski gear partially assembled. His father would leave the chalet wearing ski gear and return at some point later in the day, rumpled and sweaty and claiming the slopes were fantastic but missing that key detail of wind chapped cheeks or scent of the open air on his skin.

It was a joke, a long running farce, that would one day land his father with a hell of a lawsuit and not much else to his name. Linda Thrombey Drysdale was many things but forgiving, particularly when her pride was the thing that suffered, wasn't one of them.

His grandfather isn't up yet, or just hasn't deigned to descend from his room. Ransom swings his gaze towards the closed door, a slice of a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. Nothing has happened, yet, but from the way Harlan has been eyeing Richard at every family gathering since Ransom shared that little bit of news...

Donna appears again, darting out of the hallway that leads to the rooms where she, Walt, and Jacob are sequestered in this little nightmare of a 'vacation'. She freezes, finding her nephew watching her, and grimaces as she rocks herself into motion again. Not for the first time Ransom likens her in his mind to a mouse, a twitchy little bundle of nervous energy, jumping at any and every little thing – expected or not.

Today she's giving him a wide berth. Just yesterday she'd been shoving a folding of translucent imagery in his face, hissing accusations.

It wasn't _his_ fault that Walt couldn't do something as simple as get out of a car and avoid a slick sheet of ice. It wasn't _his_ fault that his father had chosen that particular portion of the lot to park upon their arrival to the chalet. All he'd done was exit the vehicle in normal fashion, _perhaps_ happening to bump his uncle with the door.

Who breaks their ankle – leg, whatever – slipping on a sheet of ice, anyway?

Donna sniffles in his direction, clearly thinking that the action is more than enough to convey her continued anger over the day she'd had to spend in the closest hospital and the cast her husband's lower leg is now encased in. Ransom gave it – _maybe –_ three days more before Donna gave up waiting on Walt hand and foot and hired someone to do the job.

He quirks his eyebrows at her in return, delighting in the way she purses her lips and scowls in response before whisping back in the direction she'd come, back to attend to Walt, and once she'd tired of that – to wake a definitely-didn't-want-to-be-here teen.

But now he's alone. Alone with his thoughts and the staff trying to silently keep out of view – out of sight out of mind – of the family currently occupying the chateau.

Ransom squints at the décor of the chateau waiting, waiting. Something will happen soon. Something _entertaining_. He slouches a little further in the chair, annoyed at being awake – at being alone – at being present. He could demand attention. He could... cause a scene over the coffee that was the exact thing his mother had requested and tasted like sun baked rocks. He could pluck a book from one of the cases in the far corner of the room and bury himself in the written word... but that would require getting up.

Stewing, waiting, coiling up ready to pounce on the next family member that appeared was going to have to suffice. For now.

Except – except there _is_ someone that can't dash away and hide somewhere unseen. She might not be at the chateau, not even in the same state, but she _always_ entertains. Even when she doesn't want to – _particularly_ when she doesn't want to – she entertains.

He taps out a message and watches, waiting for the change from delivered to read.

"Hugh – more coffee?"

There. There's the read receipt. But she doesn't reply... which is... irksome.

"Hugh?"

Ransom flexes his jaw before adjusting his focus without bothering to move his head even an inch, cocking an eyebrow in answer: _If you **have** to ask..._

But – _oh_ – it's the blonde one with legs that rivaled _she-who-isn't-answering_ and a pouty lower lip that begged for biting. He'd learned just how pouty she could be after entertaining himself a little on Day One.

Half focusing on the blonde, he taps out another message on his phone. Something a little more salacious should, by his estimation, get her talking – on the road to Baltimore or no. 


	17. E is for Extraction

**T** he latest satellite footage gave a grainy but passable view of the encampment and everything that stood between their landing site and the encampment marked in red. The scientists stationed there had gone curiously silent – approximately how long ago was still murky, a subject routed around whenever broached. But it meant a payday for him. Monarch wanted their research collected, and if any survivors discovered – which, considering the briefing he'd just sat through, was doubtful – then that was good, too.

"Nichols!"

Conrad barely flinches, though the barked greeting from the expedition lead came not two paces away. Jack, Johnny – one of those names that was short for something else and betrayed a discomfort with their given name. He had no such qualms, though not everyone got to address him as James. Most he simply let call him Conrad. No need to make things more complicated than they needed to be.

He keeps his eyes trained on the map spread out on the table, squinting at the planned landing site and the distance that would need to be traversed. The plotted path wouldn't be easy. Most of the team would stay at the landing site. The rest – a doctor, a tech, and himself – would seek out the temporary scientific encampment and recover who and what they could.

"We were starting to wonder."

It's good natured ribbing that Conrad works to tune out, readying to stand and make himself scarce as the engines rumble louder, signaling the vessel's departure. The latecomer can glean details from the others.

Or drop a bag and kick-slide it under the table before stepping into the space just next to Conrad, "No time like barely on time."

"James, this is—"

Conrad stands and turns, halfway to holding out a hand for introductory purposes. The latecomer – Nichols – is a woman. She frowns, barely pausing to tip her attention towards James and twiddle her fingers in a silent _hello_ , before jabbing a fingertip onto the mapped terrain on the table. "I thought we'd decided to airdrop a klick east of the site. We're heading in by _boat_?"

"Better for extraction." Conrad folds his arms over his chest, adjusting his stance to settle in. Nichols seemed to think she could walk in and redo the plans already laid out when _he_ was the expert in charge of the safety of the group during the mission.

This time when Nichols turns her attention to him it isn't a barely paused glance. She turns, standing to face him, "Only if your goal is to waterproof a bunch of raw data and get the hell out again." Her glare swings away from his face to lock onto the Monarch team lead, the man ultimately making the decisions – at least until the few of them were traipsing through the jungle. "What about survivors?"

Something passes between the two that Conrad can only guess at. He'll grill the team lead well into the evening to see if he can learn more, but for now he needs to squash the debate over the plan before it gains any more momentum. Not that they don't have time for this, they've got two days of continuous travel before they'll arrive, but it's been discussed and decided by those willing to be present and plan. "Being dropped in _looks_ a shorter distance, but the terrain would triple the time to get to the site. _If_ anyone's still _there._ Trekking in lets us see if they're retracing back to their landing site." Nichols swings her glare back to him as he lands his final blow, parroting her earlier phrase back to her, "Unless your only goal is to waterproof a bunch of raw data and get the hell out again."

For a brief moment it looks like Nichols is going to launch herself at him, her expression darkening into something that looks absolutely murderous, but the team lead clears his throat, his tone softer than Conrad expects. The result is instantaneous. "Gina. _Rescue_ and retrieval is what James does."

Nichols – _Gina_ – blinks and twists her attention back to the map. Her anger slowly starts to trickle out of her posture, though the hard bite still accents her tone when she speaks, "It's the original landing site?"

The morning meeting that had gone so well has become a little spectacle, something that doesn't sit well on Conrad's shoulders – but she's making an effort not to strangle him, so he makes the effort to wave the olive branch in her direction that the team lead tossed him. Sure, if she'd shown up on time like the rest of them she'd already _know_ why he'd suggested the change, but...

Conrad unfolds his arms from across his chest, making a noise of assent, "According to the records." He leans to indicate the route he'd been studying before. "We'll keep as close as we can to their estimated route. But my goal is to get us there faster."

It's curious that Nichols is so stuck on the rescue portion of the operation. He waits till she scoops up her bag and disappears to find her quarters to round on the team lead. Even the medic that he'll be dragging through the underbrush hadn't been half as worried about possible casualties or survivors – just how long it'd take to get to the site and how many possible _things_ would be coming out of the woodwork intent on killing them.

The team lead side-steps Conrad's probing, giving yet another non-answer that they clearly expect him to swallow and move on. There's a lot of that going around... 


	18. L is for Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ imagine Andy Barber ]
> 
> _Potentially part of the Andy Barber au I've got in the works. Cause y'know we definitely need another WIP to deal with..._

**A** ndy had laid out the rules in clear, concise verbiage soon after the pair of you met. The past was off limits even if the urge surfaced to share. It would be sex for the reasons of instant physical gratification and nothing more. Kissing was out of bounds. Any touching of the mouth wasn't allowed – oral sex a careful activity undertaken with assurances that certain lines would never be crossed. Each party was responsible for holding the other to the rules.

It works, for a while, the random fuck sessions carried out in hotel rooms around the city. That was another rule: never at home. If it weren't for the definitive lack of a tan line around a certain finger you might be worried that you were being framed as 'the other woman'... but that wasn't what this was. It was a fulfillment of a physical need to connect without risking anything deeper.

Each of you carry on with your lives, separate – but connected by this arrangement. He'll disappear for spans of time, one word (sometimes) offered in explanation: travel. For work? Something more personal? These are details you aren't allowed and don't really need to bother with, but sometimes find yourself curious to know.

Then he disappears for a week and change. You start to worry about the man you'd agreed to remain distanced from. Gone a few days here, a few days there, is radically different than disappearing from the planet for an extended length of time. But pushing for details is breaking the agreement between the pair of you. He'll let you know when he's back. Or he won't and you'll just have to forget the man that went to extreme lengths to remain alone.

At the nearly two weeks of silence, a simple text alerts you of his return, and a need to see you.

_Tonight?_

One word displayed on the screen of your device and you feel instant relief, and the ignition of the spark of desire. You've missed him – the weight of him, the touch of his skin, the assured way his body moves. You work out the details, the motel where you'll meet up and when, and then spend the rest of the day distracted by the horizontal delights that await.

You get there a little early to secure the room, texting him the room number before settling in to wait for the knock at the door. It doesn't take long – he arrives exactly on time.

When you open the door your breath catches. He's sporting a beard, and something within him seems to have shifted during his absence, though you can't put your finger on what. He's wearing the same dark attire he's always worn, offers up the same quiet greeting he always does.

"Hey."

You step back to make room for him, attention stuck on the lower portion of his face. You want beard burn, rosy rashes littering your skin, and you want it now. Tugging your lower lip into your mouth to gently bite down, you try to shake yourself back into the usual routine. Let him in. Divest of clothing. Fuck until exhaustion sets in.

The pair of you have been at this long enough – what, a year or more? – that despite the lack of details he can read your thoughts pretty well. The fact that you can't seem to keep your focus off his mouth and the new thatch of dark hair seems to amuse him. Andy's eyes glitter as he blindly shuts the door to the motel room. "Miss me?"

The question trips you out of your lust glazed state to squint at him. Is it his playfulness that sits differently? It's almost a weight that he's been carrying that has lifted. Curiosity drives you – you want to ask – but you can't. "Maybe." You fire the question back at him, toeing the line, "Did you miss _me_?"

Andy nods, shucking out of his light jacket and tossing it in the general direction of the side table and set of chairs – furniture usually ignored other than for purposes of holding abandoned clothing. "I did," he admits, lust hoods his eyes for a second as his gaze drops to rove your body, but then it clears and his eyes snap up to meet yours again, "A necessary trip, but I've never been happier to be home."

Was that – a blip of his past? Details shared that were forbidden? He reaches back to pull his shirt over his head and misses the way the realization makes you stutter in shucking yourself free of the loose pullover you'd worn to ward against the cold.

He thumbs the button of his slacks to let them hang at his hips undone but abandons dealing with his zipper, his brows dipping into a brief frown as he draws closer, "What?" His warm hands gently grace your hips before one hand snags the waistband of your leggings to tug you towards him. "Everything ok?"

"Yea—" you take advantage of the proximity, reaching up to drape one arm over his shoulder, letting the other hand brush into the coarse dark hair on his face. "I'm just – _really_ enjoying _this_." 

"A fan of—" he breaks off his teasing as your thumb runs a little closer to his lips than either of you normally allow. His eyes spark in warning, an eyebrow quirking up as he tips his head back and reaches up to lightly snare your wrist. "That's dangerously close to breaking the rules."

Rules. Rules. Fuck the rules. Wasn't he the one tiptoeing dangerously close to the line just moments ago? You make a noise in response, not quite acknowledgement, your focus caught on the sliver of a smirk and the hue of his lips framed by the rough dark beard. Yep, definitely fuck the rules.

Without a word Andy releases your wrist and taps you backwards. Bed. Now.

Once you're free of your leggings he plants himself between your legs, occasionally dropping his head to scrape his jaw along your skin. The beard burn he gives you is magnificent, making you all the more sensitive to his wandering touch.

Every rasping contact of his jaw makes you shudder and moan even more than usual. You trail one hand up his back, tracing up his neck to continue to urge him on, delighting in the feeling of his beard on your skin. His aim shifts from your shoulder up your neck, and then he lands a bite to the space just under your jawline.

"Oh, _fuck_. Andy!" Your words escape in a breathy moan and you feel his teeth loosen, his mouth connecting with the same spot.

You feel Andy's low chuckle vibrate through him, the way he smiles into your skin, and then his mouth leaves your throat. He shifts his balance and thrusts his hips, raising up to look down at you for a second – watching your mouth drop open – and then his mouth lands on yours, catching the moan before it fully escapes you.

 _Oh_. There was a reason the pair of you had left that part out of the arrangement.

Much – much – _much_ – later he's panting slightly, propped up on one elbow and watching you shift in the bed beside him, blissed out and exhausted. "So." He waits till you catch his eye before grinning at you, "Beard kink?"

Your skin is already flushed, you know, but you can feel yourself tinging darker as you laugh. Maybe you should have warned him about that? You move to throw a hand up to cover your eyes but the act of smiling, laughing, and the mention of that beard that he put to _such_ good use, makes the raspberry-blushed-and-well-used skin around your mouth itch with desire. "Maybe?"

Your fingers barely have a moment of connection before he tugs your hand away from your face. His eyes are sparking an impossible, brilliant blue as he leans closer, "Maybe." He echoes your giggled statement, shifting his body as he corrects you, "I think you mean, _'yes'_."

"You broke the rule." It's not an accusation. It's a very accurate telling of recent events. You're very glad of it – because as good as the sex was before, what had just happened between you was like the illumination of a live-wire.

Andy tips his head, offering you a one shouldered shrug, "Yea... I did. And I think I will again..." 


	19. U is for Underthings

[ your morning takes an unexpected turn ]

In your dream you've got company, your bed shared for the first time in a long while. The dream - because the choice of company is well beyond your sphere - is anything but restful. It's all lips and skin and groans and moans, all the best things that make up for the exhaustion that follows a night spent chasing other pursuits. It's really a damn shame it's a dream... 

"Wha-t the hell?"

That voice that had broken through the blissful canoodling sounded awful close. It was just a remnant, right? You'd been dreaming about him. Naturally the dream bled into reality, shattering what was shaping up to be a great morning chasing a release similar to that you'd experienced overnight.

And then the bed moves and you snap your eyes open. 

That movement wasn't because of you.

"What the hell?" The statement is repeated, a little louder as you turn, your gaze locking on the man you'd just been dreaming about.

In. Your. Bed.

Climbing out of it, to be more precise.

You wince as he calls for his dog, his tone pitched higher. He's trying to make sense out of things, just like you are. "Bud? Where are ya, bud... What the hell...."

You blink, slightly stupefied by this turn of events, watching him as he looks around, taking in your room. This isn't right. This isn't right at all. 

Ok, yes. You _sometimes_ have been known to wander into your friend's dreams, but you've never _ever_ summoned anyone into yours. Let alone wake up to _find them in bed with you_. 

What the – what the hell is going on. He's got the right idea – you join him in muttering that phrase he hasn't let go of – even if he has let go of your bedsheet and stumbled upright to take in his new surroundings. He's panicked. Well, chalk up two for that sentiment. 

Ok. Maybe muttering under your breath isn't helping anything. At least you're in a familiar environment. You start to untangle yourself from the bed, scooting to the far edge to maintain a little distance from this familiar stranger sharing close to the same space as you, "God I'm – I'm so sorry. This is _really_ embarrassing."

He pauses the act of blinking hard to swivel that bewildered expression in your direction. "You're – sorry? Who... what the fuck... where? What's going on?"

You squint at the almost naked starlet standing on the opposite side of the bed and struggling for cohesion. In your dream you'd been happy, _more_ than happy, that he was basically naked. Now... Does he always sleep with so little clothing on, or had you accidentally snatched him away from company? Oh. God. "Uh..." 

How do you even begin to explain things? Particularly when you're not really sure what's happened, yourself?

"Where am I? And who are you?"

Ok. Those are two questions you can easily answer! You're just not quite prepared for the way the news of where he is hits him. He's not where he went to sleep – not even close. You murmur apologies, again, as he absorbs the news. He blinks, body stuttering as he clearly struggles to wrap his brain around it, and then he breathes out a deep breath. Ok. Man definitely needs more clothes on. Watching his body's every movement is hella distracting.

It's only when you turn to start digging through your dresser to seek out something to toss at him that he seems to recover from the shock of waking up someplace other than where he went to sleep. Except recovering means he's starting to analyze his surroundings and the woman he woke up next to. "Wait. I _know_ you. You were in my dream!"

Funny how that little bit of news simultaneously terrifies and excites you. He remembers you? It was rare that you walked into someone's dream and they remembered well enough to comment on it afterwards. Considering the dream you'd been enjoying before waking up.... You risk looking away from the task of finding him a shirt to glance in his direction. The flush that had been gracing his skin is gaining in strength. It's not just from being flustered waking up in a stranger's bed with no memory of how he got there – the growing strain on his boxers paints a clear picture.

You revert back to muttering embarrassed curses and digging for clothing for him. Anything left by old boyfriends. Loose things you'd purchased that have any hope of fitting him, even if super snug. Something. Anything. "I'm really – _really_ – sorry about this. I can... I don't know how it happened, _ohgodwhatthehell_ , but this isn't a normal thing for me." 


	20. M is for Maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ from Hitman for Hire ]

**W** hen they see him coming, rarely as it happens, he's never encountered someone willing to give up their life. Not immediately. That part usually comes after the struggle – once they realize the futility of it, once they're exhausted from the initial burst of exertion, having worn through the rush of adrenaline that kicks the fight or flight impulse into gear.

This target was no different than the rest. It's _the location_ that has caused complications, and the weather. He hadn't paid much mind to the distant thunder the night before, thinking the storm that rolled through would be like any other: a smattering of rain, the moisture-soaked ground drying out well before midmorning just as it had every day since his arrival to the city.

He was wrong.

His target seems obsessed with inspecting every inch of the facility that could possibly affecting by the pooled precipitation. The extra movement _should_ have provided extra opportunity but instead has him hunting a mouse in a maze while dodging security, both man and machine. Even with the insulation provided by the race a few days on at some point someone will end up pausing long enough to question him purely for his movements around the facility. Then the game would change to something bloodier.

He frowns as he follows his target back out into the hazy sunshine, back out towards the track, the barns, and the lorry park. The quicker the job the less collateral damage, which is his preference. Like many others of his profession he'd like to avoid having to bulldoze his way to the waiting payday. More deaths and more witnesses are never a good thing. One life is all he was contracted for, though preferences get removed from the equation when security interferes. 

Whatever his target has done, deserving or not – he'd learned long ago not to pry to deeply – he will fulfill the contract. The man will be dead before the sun sets regardless of whatever was stolen, drugs used or transported – or refused, or whatever other reason under the sun that pissed someone off enough to warrant calling in the services of a hitman. He knew money was involved, and lots of it. Beyond that it isn't really his business, so long as he gets paid.

That damn storm. The saturated ground doesn't quite squelch as they move towards the barns but it's making him move slower, slowing down the job for the fact that he's having to play chase-around-the-complex.

Enough of this. He aims and fires his silenced weapon – the target jerks, but not in reaction to the pinch of an unexpected mosquito bite. His quarry has _slipped in the mud_ – the shot anchoring in the wood fencing extending from the barns out towards the washing pit. The lightness in the man's curses suggest he hasn't yet realized how close he'd come to falling for an entirely different reason, never to stand again.

And then his quarry looks up, noticing he's not alone, not quite seeing – or processing – the gun that is trained on him as he rights himself, casting a scornful glance at the ground before committing a wide-eyed double take.

"Fuck."

The same word slips from both their mouths, rooted mostly in the same sentiment.

He aims again as the man scrambles for anything resembling cover, as much as can be found in the open space that is miraculously devoid of witnesses. He wings the man in the shoulder, not quite what he was aiming for, but it makes the man drop his phone into the muck. No calling for help on that – he shoots the phone for good measure, grinding it further into the mud as he passes by where the man dropped it.

"Whatever they're paying you..."

Bargaining and scrambling, trying to flee – _trying_ – the key word.

He snorts as he follows the man into the washing pit, squaring up his shot – not wanting to waste another bullet. He _would_ have said something aimed to comfort the man, or at least assure him that if _he_ didn't succeed someone else would follow so why waste all that energy. The man surprises him, swinging the hose and rigging at him, the metal nozzle of the hose connecting and jarring his weapon free of his hands.

Alright. The up-close-and-personal way it is. He seeks out his blade, tugging it loose from its holster with one hand while he yanks the hose loose from the other man's grasp with the other. No more makeshift weapons. The man, this co-owner of one of the horses who is moneyed and wearing _loafers_ for this insane inspection of the grounds for god's sake, shouldn't put up much resistance and then the day can progress.

But he does.

Call it an achievement of the adrenaline and the knowledge that death awaits. Call it agility masked for moments such as these – granted his sporadic movements lack the discipline, the knowledge behind the maneuvers, that is needed to ultimately succeed. Maybe that's the man's goal. Buying time. Prove just enough a challenge to allow someone to notice what is taking place. His own maneuvers are meant with one goal in mind: ending things quickly. A slash of the knife here, a calculated blow to the body there – he'll wear the man through or land a killing strike. Either will do.

They end up sprawled in the mud. He finally gets his arms locked around the man's shoulders, preventing further twisting, or flailing. It's close now, the final moment. There's a wildness in his target's eyes that he's seen many times before, fear blended with anger and the knowledge of the inevitable outcome.

"How heavy are the souls you take?" Spittle accompanies the man's venomous words, his breathing as erratic as his fighting style had been.

It rattles him, but he doesn't let that stall the work of his blade. One jerk of his arm and he's finally able to let go of his troublesome quarry. The ground, turned up and trampled from their scuffle, soaks a darker color as he stands, his target sprawled at his feet. He cleans his knife quickly before storing it, the air a heady blend of sweat and animals and fear and death.

He utters a soft response to the man's question as his breathing steadies, already seeking the weapon he'd dropped earlier. "Tygne än du vet."

There. Over where the mud fades to a different color demarking the path connecting the racetrack facility to the barns. He tries to shake some of the mud from his gloves, dislodging some from his forearm as well, scraping some off his pants leg as he stoops to retrieve his gun. Beneath his cuff the white of his shirt peeks out. His jacket and – yes, likely the slacks as well – won't be salvageable, but maybe the shirt. Maybe the shirt. He has an hour and a half trip back to the city center to make up his mind on the matter.

Prague. So many bridges. So many places to drop a bundle and have it disappear.

He yanks off one of his gloves, using it to wipe at the mud adorning his jacket before digging through his pockets to find his phone. The message he needs to send is brief: 

_ACCOMPLISHED_


	21. J is for Jackal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ a glimpse into the story that might develop from a fic title prompt: Where the Cactus Grows ]

**S** he brushes absently at the sawdust clinging to the hem of her shorts. She's coated in the stuff, a thin layer covering her from head to toe, so the action is pointless. The lines from the protective fit of the dust mask have almost faded from around her nose and mouth they've been sitting out on their break for so long – but he doesn't quite want to disturb her, yet.

He knows her story well enough, not that she'd offered it out of a desire for sympathy but simply that he'd asked about the crutches she'd still been reliant upon when she arrived to take up the lease of one of his properties. What she didn't reveal in her simple statement of ' _needing a new start while healing from an injury_ ' he'd found with a quick search of her name while he verified references.

Even before being free of the crutches he could see the aura of _dancer_ about her – and then after, when she was free to sway and step and shift to the music when she thought nobody was watching. He understood the distance she was putting between herself and what had happened. Some things took more than time, more than a dozen surgical screws and carefully stitched sutures, to heal from.

Like a dream, a possible future, being ripped from your grasp.

"Oh! Neil!"

He lurches out of his thoughts in response to the way she suddenly straightens and gasps out his name. Is she realizing that she's done too much today? Helping with the endeavor to refinish the hardwood floors of the studio was the least he could do after accidentally outing her to the community as a former ballet dancer. But he's not sorry for it, truth be told. In the months since she'd accepted the title of _former_ ballerina _and potential teacher_ she's blossomed into something else, someone else – perhaps a someone closer to who she used to be.

Her focus is still turned away from him, locked on the long shadows cast by the sun closing in on the horizon.

"Is that a... fox? A – coyote?"

He squints in the direction she's pointing, worried that she's right and it _is_ a coyote that has wandered into town. Hopefully it's someone's housecat or pup that has gotten loose and is wandering... He tsks in a breath, clicking his tongue away from his teeth as he shakes his head, "Nope. That's a jackal." He shifts as he stands, reaching towards her without looking away from the lean creature, "C'mon. Time to go in." 


	22. H is for Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ from Once Burned, Twice Shy - a Tom Hiddleston AU (fire-elemental!Tom) ]

"Terms have been _stated._ " He's losing his patience, but the casual observer might not realize it. He has his hands clasped together in his lap, carefully keeping them away from the desk he is half sitting on, or the paperwork now spread across the surface. How he's holding his body might have been a relaxed pose in other circumstances. You can see the veins in his arms, his muscles rigid as a result of his attempt at control.

"No."

The receptionist evidently hasn't seen someone stand against him in such a way. She's got damp splotches showing on her silk shirt now and a visible sheen of sweat developing to dampen the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. It isn't just the result of nerves. Tom has been raising the temperature of the room.

Always with the theatrics.

It's gone beyond the feeling of a mild-summer-heat. You're waiting to hear the rumble and pop of the poor AC units. The result of the battle between machine and his will is that the room more closely resembles a sauna than the inside of an oven, but only just. Once the units give out the moisture provided by them will quickly evaporate.

"Tell him!" She says, pleading for you to stop making the scary man angry.

But he isn't a man. He's a fire elemental.

And an asshat.

Even as powerful as he is it takes him a few days of preparation to create a proper guise every time he destroys the previous one. Less time than that if it is just a throw-away – something he plans on destroying and never needing again. The price of him knowing how to find a form that he wouldn't burn through – how to stay earthbound without forsaking his powers, actually being able to do everything he is capable of without fear of burn out?

Unlocking that door for a fire elemental was dangerous enough. There are far worse beings out there that would love to know the secret. It would travel through the preternatural community faster than a wind-whipped forest fire during a drought.

No. You maintain your resolve. He'll play mind games and tantrum until he wears his form out and then what? Reveal himself further to the vanilla mortal also stuck in this room with the pair of you? She'll probably pass out upon viewing his true self. Given her current state, he's never gone so far to get what he wants while in her presence. What a thrill to be the person to pull such a reaction from him.

The condensation that has been building up on the windows is now burning off, the double panes at his back are starting to warp with the heat Tom is emitting. The glass will melt down soon if he keeps it up. Clean up, 17th floor. The warmer the room gets the more his form starts to crackle and change to more closely match the being beneath.

Damn it all if you can't look away. Moth. Flame. Etc. Etc.

Just like before...

A trail of perspiration meanders down your back. Your hair is curling wildly as a result of the steam bath you're getting. The wall behind him is taking the brunt of his focus as he tries to frighten words out of you with a show of power. He has turned it from the blah beige to splotchy oaken brown. As you watch the color deepens, the splotch darkening, creating a burn outline in the shape of his form. The desk is probably suffering a similar fate, but the stained finish is so dark it is hard to tell.

Such antics might have loosened your tongue before but you've had a few years in the field. It may be uncomfortable in this office but you've experienced far worse out on your own, from things willing to allow you to be the thing becoming charred rather than the wall.

The receptionist? She's gone rigid, white showing around her irises as she stares at the charred spot on the wall. People must have come to him expecting to have to hand over a great deal of money only to end up trading in things far more valuable. Favors. Secrets. She works with him. Surely she has seen just how determined he can be in getting what he wants. But a show this blatant? Judging from the way she's reacting this is the first time she's ever really gotten a taste of what he is capable of. It seems her luck has run out.

Surprise lady, preternatural beings are real!

The receptionist takes a few steps away from your side, extending the distance between the pair of you. Some compatriot she is – but then she's loyal to him, not you. Or rather, she's loyal to the firm.

This is quite the way to be introduced to the preternatural. He's probably fiddled within her head a time or two to glean needed details. He should come with a label: _Attention, if you inexplicably feel a headache starting at your temples, popping an aspirin will do you no good._ Despite yourself and your current predicament, you feel a bit sorry for her.

After you knew the warning signs it was easy to spot the moments he would skip the asking and just try to pluck information from your head. At least, in the years since, you've gotten better at psychic defenses. Maybe you'll thank him for leaving, assuming you survive the meeting and come out of the encounter with tickets in hand. And then the thanks will only be delivered via phone after you're a long ways away.

Tom hasn't looked away from you once. While you've been flittering your focus around the room and over to check on the receptionist he's kept his eyes locked on you – or, more accurately, focused on his task: prying that bit of information you're trying to keep from him out of your skull.

"Finish the transaction little mage. Tell me what I want to know and the tickets are yours." He says, pushing himself up off the desk and taking a step towards you. The air in the room shifts as he moves, a change of pressure indicating he's changing tactics. Heat isn't getting you to do what he wants. His approach occurs just about the same time you hear the distant groan of the AC units finally giving up the battle. The steam will leave the room quickly, now.

Other than his nasty habit of rifling through your brain the only time he'd ever used his powers on you was at your request. Little mage wanting to test herself against an elemental. Other pains have occurred since but that first taste of malevolent force had stolen your breath. From the look on his face at the moment his intent is clear: you're about to get a lovely reminder of that first brush with elemental fire.

He's already expelled so much energy that the guise he's wearing is almost translucent to your Sight and crackling nearly constantly. You check the receptionist – she's shifted her attention from the charred mark on the wall to his form and is transfixed. If she wasn't so afraid she'd probably be salivating.

You flinch as he reaches out but don't step away. Perspiration hisses from your skin where he drags his finger over your jawline toward the tip of your chin. Upon reaching the apex of your jaw his fingers stutter momentarily in the air before wrapping around your neck, his hand flush underneath your jawbone.

The physical connection enhances his ability to psychically push through the last-ditch barriers you've thrown up against him. Now all you can do is shove things into his path to prevent him from finding the little black box he's searching for.

"Stop this and tell me."

You expect more anger behind his words.

He isn't applying so much pressure with his hand to cut off your airway entirely but the heat searing into your skin from his thumb and index finger is alarming. He's burning through his guise to the point that soon he won't be able to maintain the protective barrier between his true form and the outside world. If he's still pushing you for information when his guise fails...

Rather than think about that you concentrate on those piercing blue eyes now almost entirely visible through his rapidly deteriorating shell you wonder if his receptionist here has ever seen Tom's true form. His annoyingly beautiful true self.

Perks of whatever fraction of preternatural blood you had running through your veins include being able to see through every guise worn by preternatural beings while they fiddled about with mortals. The day you spotted Tom you'd considered it a perk.

You've learned better since.

He's digging through your mind with more force now, chasing the little black box of information. You have to keep bouncing it around to keep it beyond his reach. You flinch when he causes another wall of protection to crumble and gains access to more of your memories. You try to push some of them aside to keep them away from his raking fingers and instead push it straight at him. You see it in his eyes exactly when the memory hits him. The next mentor you'd sourced out and his hard knocks lessons on how exactly to deal with irate pixies – by unleashing a swarm of them on you and watching as they broke through your simplistic attempts at shielding yourself before tearing at your clothes and skin. 


	23. Y is for Yuletide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ from the world of Lakeside ]

**T** om gives a little shake after stomping some of the snow and ice from his boots, trying to rid himself of the light layer of rapidly melting flakes. He forgoes shucking out of his jacket. There are still a few bags left in the truck, after all, but right now he wants to find Ryan and see if he can't convince her that staying over the holidays is the best idea. She's been putting off packing so – there's a chance... so he hopes. 

"Ry? Babe?"

"In here!"

He keeps the box wrapped with a bow carefully tucked against his torso as he seeks her out, finding her exactly where he'd left her a few hours ago. Her laptop sits abandoned on the cushions beside her, a blanket tucked up around her legs, a notepad of 'things to do' tossed onto the makeshift coffee table. There's the hint of cocoa in the air – so the mug she sets down when he enters the room must be hot chocolate. He makes a mental note to replenish their stash the next time he checks in with Tori at the store.

"I was starting to think you got lost." Ryan's smile falters when she sees the package in his arms, one eyebrow raising, "I thought we said no presents till I got back."

"Maybe I don't want Austin to upstage me."

Ryan exhales a quick sigh as she rolls her eyes. "Tom."

It's been a months-long debate between them – her determination to return to the city to stay with her cousin until the new year, just like she'd done the year before. She didn't overwinter well, at least not in a place that didn't plow the layers of snow and ice from sidewalks and drives to maintain movement from place to place. His city girl was slowly acclimating, but Tom still had a ways to go with her, yet.

"I know – I know." His boots squeak against the floorboards as he circles to stand between her and the fireplace, the heat of the fire a welcome warmth compared to the chilled layers he's yet to remove. If he's not careful the surprise will be revealed simply for his change in routine. "Arrangements have been made."

"Mmhmm."

He takes a step closer, shifting the present in his arms, "So let me have this?" He waits a beat, but then doesn't want to risk a prolonged silence. "I promise I won't say another word about Christmas."

That wins him a grin and a shake of her head as she laughs, "Liar. But – this is unfair..." She shifts a little on the cushions as she watches him step around the makeshift coffee table and settle onto it in front of her. "I'm opening something, and you aren't."

Tom shakes his head, carefully holding the box in place between them, steadying the oversized package on his knees. "Maybe it's totally fair. Maybe it's a present for both of us. To share."

Those emerald eyes he adores drop to the red and green box before lifting again to study his face, her expression narrowing as her suspicion grows. "That box is _way_ too big for lingerie."

He tips his head back as he laughs, and then gives her a wink, "Unless it's a box inside of a box inside of another box..."

"You're an idiot." Ryan beams at him, tipping forward as she holds out her hands. "But unless you plan on teasing me all afternoon – come on. Hand it over."

"Teasing is half the fun."

"Only half? Oh!" Ryan makes a face at him as he places the box in her lap, carefully keeping his hands in close proximity to steady the box – just in case. It wasn't so much the weight of it – though that was likely a factor – but likely the _movement_ from within. "Tom..."

He nods encouragement even as she hesitates, airing his name in warning. "Open it." He'd made sure to wrap the box in such away that all she needed to do was lift the lid.

Ryan presses her lips together, an expression he knows so well after this past year they'd spent getting to know one another, as she works the lid free of the lower half of the box. "It's... is it... what did you do?" The puppy pops his head up as soon as she works the lid free of the box, wiggling with delight as she squeaks in surprise. "Oh! Oh, Tom. Did you – a puppy!"

He waits until she's scooped the puppy out of the box and into her arms before setting the box aside on the floor, grinning as he watches her cuddle the wiggling pup. "The adoption paperwork went through this morning. Couldn't wait, after that. Do you like him?"

It was a silly question, not that that stopped him from asking. She's got tears in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks isn't from the cozy warmth of the log fire. There's another question he wants to ask – somewhat related to staying for Christmas, to staying in his life forever – but he's not worked up the nerve, yet. Soon. Eventually. If Tori doesn't give up patiently waiting and follow through with the threat to ask Ryan for him.

"He's adorable, Tom. I love him."

"Good." It's all he can think to say as she lifts those sparkling eyes to lock onto him again, the puppy wiggling and squirming to try to litter her with kisses – or escape and explore. He'll never get used to the way she can spear him with a look, seeing into the depths of him seemingly without even trying. It doesn't itch the way it used to, though, now it hits him like a cool breeze on a sweltering summer's day.

She shifts her focus back and forth over his features before dropping her attention back to the pup trying to wriggle his way out of her lap. "Does he have a name?"

Tom watches her scratch behind the puppy's ears, her fingers shifting to the collar clasped around the puppy's neck. "Well," he hems, finally tugging his jacket off and setting it aside. "The name on his paperwork was Baxter but I was thinking we could pick something out together."

Ryan nods, letting the puppy explore the gap between her and the closer armrest of the sofa. "Hmm. Ok. Did you have any ideas?"

He'd thought of several during the drive as he tried to keep the pup nestled safely in the box in the passenger's seat. The little devil had nearly tipped out of it and spilled into the floorboards more than once. Vet visits will definitely require more than one person – a driver and a pup-wrangler. "Maybe."

His comment wins him another suspicious stare, though she can't quite wipe the joy entirely from her features. She echoes his statement before blinking, something else seemingly occurring to her, "Maybe... oh! What about his food? And leash and – things?"

Tom grins, straightening his spine a little, "Out in the truck. Didn't want to ruin the surprise. Or risk dropping him on the way in."

Ryan leans forward, wordlessly drawing him in for a kiss with nothing more than a look. She exhales, resting her forehead against his, keeping her eyes closed. For a moment it's just the pair of them anchored together. "I guess you win, after all."

"Hmm?"

She flutters her eyes open, settling back just enough that he can focus on her face. "There's no way I'm going to Austin's, now." Ryan turns her head, her soft smile faltering, surprise giving way to what would almost be a comical double take if it weren't for her alarm. "Tom... where is he? Where's the dog?" 


	24. N is for Nervous

So your friend has once again done the thing you hate and set you up on a blind date. It’s the millionth time she’s tried this. As good as you’ve gotten at dodging her requests, she’s gotten better at thwarting your attempts at getting out of it. She’s in a happy and loving relationship and just wants the same for you. The thing is – she keeps setting you up with people that just aren’t a good match – halfway through the date they’re on their phone, thereby ignoring you, or their interests are so different from yours there isn’t anything to talk about, or worse – they’re very into you and you find yourself unable to reciprocate.

This time, she swears, is different. He’s from the business as well so he totally gets the odd hours you keep for your job. That instantly has you worried – if two failed relationships with people also from the entertainment industry has taught you anything, it’s that when the both of you have hectic schedules finding any time to just enjoy one another is… simply put, impossible.

But it’s the holiday season and she refuses to allow you to enjoy your little bit of down time curled up in bed reading a good book.

“He’s adorable. You’ll love him immediately. You caaaaaan’t cancel! Please! He’s such a sweetheart. And I already told him you said yes.”

She rushed out that last part, leaving you to hold the phone away from your ear and glare at the device. Great. She’s talked you up – you’ll start the ‘date’ out by apologizing profusely for anything she might have told him as you battle against the nervousness trying to take hold.

>> _Don’t know what she’s told you about me but…_ <<

The little café is decked out for the season, much as you’ve decorated your apartment – Christmas lights lining the doorway and windows, a little tree decked out to the nines in the front entryway. The smell of eggnog and cinnamon and Christmas cheer brings a smile to your lips. The atmosphere in combination with your festive red dress – the ‘signal’ to your date as to who he is waiting for – you’re now bitten by the season. Even if the blind date is a bust you’re in the holiday spirit now. The next phone call to your friend might not even start out with you chewing her out for setting you up without clearing it with you first.

Not for the first time, you find yourself wondering who you’ve been set up with. No hints were given, though she’s already stated that she talked to him about you – quite the unfair advantage. Is it someone you’ve worked with recently – or in the past at some point? Just the other day you’d had a brief, but fun, encounter with someone from craft services. Had she noticed and pushed the pair of you together?

You’re smiling to yourself when you turn the corner to find your date already seated at the corner table where you’d been instructed to wait. You blink in surprise, recognizing him despite the growth of facial hair adorning his face. Chris Evans?! How on earth…

He’s dressed down in jeans and a simple black long sleeve shirt, his jacket and scarf slung over the back of his chair. He immediately stands upon seeing you round the corner, taking in your outfit and then grinning broadly. Oh that smile. It lights up his face, crinkles developing next to his eyes – and damn. There goes your heart, fluttering about in your chest.

“I’ve got to say – wow. I – I feel incredibly underdressed now.” He bumps into his chair, then the table as he tries to step towards you. He laughs, “Can I run home and change and then we’ll start again?”

You reply quickly, “You look fine. Warm.” You’d dressed your outfit down by pairing the red dress with deep brown leather boots – and a leather jacket, which Chris is now helping you shrug off. The walk from the car to the building had reminded you that though your boots extended almost to your knee, there was a bit of skin exposed from your knee up to the hem of your dress.

He pauses, shifting your jacket to one hand to extend his free one to you and introduce himself. “Hi, if I didn’t start with that. Hi. I’m Chris.”

“Evans. I know. And I’m going to kill Amy.”

This elicits a chuckle from him and your heart does another few flips in conjunction with the noise. “That bad of a start. Damn.”


End file.
